


For The Kids

by Hipporiot



Series: A Matter Of Time [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: ... 1 2 K ohmygod WHAT HAVE I D O N E, 12k of gay flirting -100 words of goldenvibe because i am sapphic, ??? idk they're not together so i guess?, Barry Just Trying To Have 5 Minutes, Fluff, HOW DO YOU TAG THINGS, Humor, Ignoring Current Plot, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Strategic Date-Like Circumstance, Winter, Without Disrupting It, and i have the power to grant cisco the happiness he deserves, and lisa snart is pretty, family outing, i just want to be helpful, i'm not putting goldenvibe in the relationships because it's only slight cisco/lisa - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:44:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9048547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipporiot/pseuds/Hipporiot
Summary: It's Central City's Annual Winter Fest! Bring your friends, bring your family, and bring your villains!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeThree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeThree/gifts).



> Gosh, this took a while. A Christmas present for WeThree! I hope it's worth the wait, and Happy Holidays!

So, fun fact: today is Central City’s annual Winterfest.

Not so fun fact: Today is also the CCPD’s polar bear dip. A fundraising event of a group of underdressed public and their sworn defenders jumping into freezing water. Which Captain Singh ordered both Joe and himself sign up for, Which Joe said starts at noon.

And It’s noon now.

“Singh’s gonna fire us.” Barry states, because it’s a pretty solid predication, and everyone leaving the car, and probably the whole surrounding parking lot should know he’s available for a new day job.

“Better start updating your resumes.” Linda sings-songs from behind him, sliding out of the handless back of Joe’s precinct assigned car, which still beats slipping on ice at 100 miles per hour.

“You could be a lounge-singing duo.” Iris suggests as she pops out from the passenger seat, her right to it indisputable after her life-long streak of calling shotgun first, even in the face of the speed force. 

Joe shakes his head as he steps onto the sidewalk, “Nah, he’s too pitchy.” 

“Hey!” He says, narrowly avoiding a foot high wall of slush between curb and lined asphalt, he still manages to slip into it due to his head following a black mini-van rolling through the parking lot. 

“See?” Joe says, Iris taking his arm while nodding in agreement pitifully. 

Linda slides in on Iris’ other side and suggests, “Dog-walker?” the rest of them luckily ignorant to his stumbling just behind them in an attempt to catch a view of the rear-window.

“Sure, if they don’t mind going at mach 2 every once and awhile.” He manages to add, technically abusing the speed force to fall back in step and attempt to forget his heart skips into his stomach at the city’s chosen family vehicle, likely the reason it was chosen by the Rogues and not it’s excellent consumer report. 

Conclusion: that it is in no way likely who he thinks it is. He hopes.

He’s not going to think about it, at all. It’s decided.

“You can always work at a salon.” Iris assures Joe with a pat of his shoulder as they wait in line to the fairgrounds, her dully pointed emphasis made with the shared memory of a particular batch of improperly set knots the night before 10th grade’s picture day. She still looked fabulous despite his handiwork causing her left side to be flat yet frizzy, but purely by the grace of being Iris West.

“Pfft,” Joe says in way of reply, also remembering that dark day, but reconsiders at Iris’ stubborn expression, “…I can do wonders with a comb.” 

Barry pipes up from his free side, “And the neatest french tips I’ve ever seen.” 

Joe laughs at that, though not at the truth of the statement, “Yeah, got you into a lotta trouble if I remember right.” He chuckles.

A lot of trouble is an understatement, “Hey, I volunteered my own hands!” Barry says, “Getting beaten up at lunch was worth the glow in the dark nail polish and glitter top coat.” He’ll defend that choice to this day, no regrets.

“You were a single dad, beat cop trying to learn how to do my nails right in one night,” She assures him at his elbow, “he couldn’t leave you hanging.” A common theme for his time in the West house, including learning how to do Iris’ hair for her when Joe had paperwork or a stakeout. And he’s not still in denial to admit his crush was fed and bolstered spending his weekend nights from 9th grade onward sitting behind her with bobby pins in one hand and a textbook in the other.

“And I’ve always appreciated it,” Joe says, wrapping an arm around each of them, yet adding reluctantly, “but getting a vague call about ‘your kids’, ‘suspension’ and ‘broken clavicle’ was a just little scary.”

“Hey, that ignorant giant charged Barry, Tony Woodward needed a reality check,” she states in her defence, “if it happened in the back of an ambulance, that’s life.” She says with a shrug, ruthless sparkle to her eye reminding him of multiple double suspensions due to ‘roughhousing’ with other students, all whom enjoyed using him as a punching bag and in turn got reality checks, though the majority of which were preceded by verbal warnings.

He sighs, going to school being a sensitive non-athletic orphan with a hobby of unexplained phenomenon was one thing, but then wearing matching nail polish with his foster sister was definitely a formative experience. “Late elementary school sucked in general, at least I had nice nails.”

Joe squeezes both of their shoulders, gives them each a sentimentally loud smooch to their temples and let’s them go, filing into the entrance queue in a proper length of him and Iris wide, himself and Linda absorbed in her phone following behind at a shuffle.

He checks his phone for a text from Cisco, and maybe any crime alerts, but nothing, so he muses, “I guess I could be Stars Labs official custodian.” It wouldn’t make much of a difference in his workload, seeing as he’s already the high-velocity reason the Cortex hasn’t been completely overtaken by wrappers, dry-erase markers and slushy cups.

Joe seems honestly offended at that one, staunchly ending the bit with an affronted, “Oh, the dip isn’t till 3.” flashing his badge casually to the attendant and consequently being waved through.

“Dad.” Iris scoffs, smacking his tie with the back of her gloved hand, “You said noon.”

He scoffs right back with clear resemblance, “Like you two could make it up and out by noon on a weekend.”

Barry is close to protesting but Linda’s cackling distracts him well enough, “What?” he asks, leaning closer to Linda’s shoulder, her phone screen shrouded by her absurdly large mittens.

Linda manages to catch her breath long enough to wheeze, “Someone made a compilation.” Which is only confusing him more as she breaks out into giggles. 

“Compilation of?” He asks half rhetorically and half optimistic, but Linda simply un-mutes her phone letting loose intercut thumps and thuds, accompanied by very familiar grunts of pain and perspectively comical crashes, tilting the screen towards him to show what he’s been dreading.

Himself, in Flash gear, smacking into various icy objects cartoon-slapstick style, Central’s streets having become comically long iced slip and slides that somehow always manage to have a garbage can, surprised cat, and camera at the end.

“Oh.” He sighs, “It’s still trending.” Great.

200 miles per hour when he’s going slow is just down right hilarious on icy roads, a recurring incident he avoided today by carpooling. 

“I’m sorry, Barry.” Iris gasps at Linda’s side as she tries to preserve her eyeliner, dabbing away the tears gathering in her eyelashes but tapping the replay button on the screen without shame.

“No, no, laugh.” considering the attention of their current destination being on the event surrounding the death of her fiancé - she’s smiling, it’s good. The state of his spine and mediocre pride? Not as good, but it’s beyond worth it.

Joe smiles too, “I’m gonna leave you kids to it, gotta see the Captain’s husband ‘bout some fudge.” He says, giving Barry a pat on his shoulder before he makes his way in the direction of the beach, with only a slight pre-fudge skip to his step.

Now they only need to find Caitlin and Cisc- “Oof!” A shorter but definitely enthusiastic mass jumps onto his back and holds on, harmlessly, but alarming and with enough momentum for him to stumble forward. 

Well, they’ve found Cisco.

“That’s like 30 now, dude.” Cisco chides as he lets go of his shoulders and greets Iris and Linda instead of explaining to either of them that they’ve got a running bet on who can surprise the other more, speed or not, but Caitlin’s still got at least 10 more on both of them. Like normal friends, of course.

Linda seems understandably confused, “It’s a bet.” Iris explains, and gracefully excuses them both, “We have to check in at the fundraising tent-“ 

“Go on, we’ll catch up later.” He replies, letting them excuse themselves to work and likely revisit the video.

“So-“ Cisco glances at his phone, stops and gapes at Barry with intended or not comic effect, “Dude! You’re early!” he says, leaving out the obvious conclusion of ‘for like the first time ever’.

“Yep,” He replies, only slightly offended, but mostly at his own flaky relationship with timing, so back to relevant matters, “Where’s-“

“Cait’s at the med-tent,” Cisco finishes and simultaneously answers, glancing at his phone one more time before pocketing it, “she’s having some sort of trouble with the volunteers, wants us to stop by.”

His heart skips at the word trouble alone, but he’s dealt with enough anxiety in his life to play casual well, “Sure, should we go now?”

Cisco scoffs, mind obviously boggled at the very idea, “Are you kidding me? And miss out on rigged games, deliciously questionable food and oversized prizes?” he explains equal knowledge and fervor. 

He takes a deep breath full of snow-fresh air, reasoning that Caitlin will understand and his stomach’s opinion on the matter has no influence whatsoever, “Well, it is for charity.”

“Exactly.” Cisco grins, to which he links arms with Barry in preparation for skipping, but he seems to remember something belatedly and stops to take a plastic bag from his pocket, ”Oh, take this.”

He takes the bag with only slight suspicion, seeing that it seems to be filled with kettle corn, a sweet gesture before he feels the weight of it, “Wow, this looks-“

“Amazing.” Cisco cuts in, obviously from experience, which explains his energetic gait as they resume walking and browse the stalls and tents.

“I was gonna say like a health code violation, but sure.” He agrees through a laugh, attempting to stuff the bag into his coat pocket when Cisco pulls out another bag and begins munching, “…How much of this have you had?” he asks with full suspicion as they push through the crowded and rather elbow-y boardwalk.

“Don’t judge me.” Cisco says in way of reply in a dark tone slightly lightened by his open mouthed chewing.

“Hey, I’m not, It’s just-“ It’s likely just misplaced anxiety, but he can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong, other than Cisco’s blood sugar and his own history with contentedness, “I’m just worried about-“

Cisco clotheslines him, which puts a pause on his ominous thought process while also adding to it, “-Captain Cold?” Cisco blurts. 

“What?” He splutters, hoping that Cisco isn’t adding to his sentence. He's in favour of reasoning that Snart would have the decency not to crash a fundraising event for not just the CCPD, but the whole city and it’s two unnatural disasters in just over a year. And also his own bias that he really doesn’t want to have a physical reminder of his confusing slight crush-like feelings surrounding Leonard Snart, which is completely illogical, purely temporary and easily deniable. And also not something he’s discussing with anyone. 

But luckily, Snart wouldn’t be reckless enough to show up. He can at least hope a little.

Cisco grabs his shoulders and points his attention forcefully at the decorated boardwalk adjacent the stands and stalls - and think of his crush on the devil - a particularly familiar face smirking back at him. 

He really has to stop hoping. Just in general.

He’s frozen - and that’s a cold pun. He charges, it’s an overly aggressive term for the spiteful action, but succinct, “Snar-Leonard.” He says at a reasonable volume despite his teeth-grinding, because saying Captain Cold’s name within a mile of the CCPD is like sending up a flare, but shouting it at a police hosted event of the entire department would be unadulterated chaos and that’s already happening between his ears, “What are you doing here?”

“Supporting my community.” Snart supplies, bringing out a plastic bag from his deceptively unassuming coat pocket and managing to make undoing a twist tie look artful.

“As if,” Cisco snaps at his side, only slightly winded, crossing his arms and jutting his chin out in an attempt to make meek and fun-sized look intimidating, “who did you steal that from?”

Snart’s eyes flick to his own, “A baby.” Which he punctuates with a crunch.

Snart is eating his food.

Barry doesn’t even need to check his pockets. He claps Cisco on his shoulder without taking his eyes off Snart’s smug chewing, “Go check around for the other Rogues, please.” Because where there’s one, there’s likely the entire mini-van.

“Should I get some help?” Cisco asks, looking between Snart and Barry with reasonable concern and only slight glaring. 

Right, backup. 

“No,” he says, “just keep me updated.” He really doesn’t want to ruin a charity event and everyone’s day along with it, and after everything that the city has put up with, it really deserves a day off. 

But back to Snart.

As soon as Cisco pushes away into the crowd, soundly out of view he takes Snart’s elbow and leads him as far away from earshot of people as possible, which is looking not as possible as he hopes.

“Easy, Red.” Snart drawls, picking through his kettlecorn casually as if he isn’t being dragged into the nearest dark corner.

He turns a stall to a shady spot beneath a vendor’s backdoor awning, “Give me that.” He snaps, snatching his bag back from Snart’s limber fingers.

“Rude.” Snart says, settling his coat with a roll of his shoulders, just a speck of class above picking his teeth in disregard. 

“Would you quit stalking me?” He stops short of saying it isn’t cute anymore, which would imply it was ever cute. Which it wasn’t-isn’t. God.

“It’s reconnaissance,” Snart defines with a single wave of his index, followed by a dismissive wave from the wrist, “-and I’m not.”

He resists the urge to fight that definition, “Then what are you here for?” he asks, but Snart just tilts his head and smirks a little tighter. “You know what, I don’t even wanna know.” He says with the intention to make Snart stop, because it’s a complete lie, he wants to know but Snart’s not going to feel that satisfaction and he’s already feeling the chill from being out of the sun so, “You’re leaving.”

Snart shrugs, shoulders to ears, “Don’t want to.” 

He doesn’t ‘want to’.

He takes an excessively deep breath, “Fine.” He says over the pounding in his ears that must be his blood pressure rising steadily just looking at Snart, who should leave, but he doesn’t ‘want to’. But disregarding that for his own health, he needs to find a solution to Snart - not to Snart as a person, he’s still working on that one - but Snart being here as of now.

He’s only slightly ashamed that he instantly knows the simplest option, and it involves the least effort, a controlled outcome, and has the highest likelihood of frustrating Snart to no end. It’s also the one that offers him a chance to prove to himself that this unnervingly tender- thing he feels for Snart is completely superficial. it’s currently better than every other option he can think up.

So it’s the first one. For reconnaissance reasons. 

“You can stay,” He says and insures he’s implying that he’s allowing it, “But if you’re anywhere less than 6-degrees separated from trouble, I’m sticking you hog-tied in the drunk tank back at the PD.”

Snart adopts the expression he saves for when he finds Barry particularly adorable, “How long do you really think that could keep me?”

“Oh, not long at all.” He chuckles casually, “But possibly long enough for an entire spiteful department to find and charge you with,” he takes in a deep breath for effect, sighs it back out with a puff of cold misty air while he sticks his hands in his pockets, “gosh, I don’t know, breaking and entering and maybe a dozen other extrapolated charges?”

Snart’s smirk approaches something like a begrudging smile, looking him over in appraisal, “Touche.” He can think of another, very similar spelt word that’s equally applicable, but he’s not going to get distracted in Snart’s challenging smirk, “Fine.” Snart agrees with a touch of underplayed showy reluctance. 

“Good.” He replies, tamping any surprise at how easy that was for smug pleasantness.

“Good.” Snart echoes, holds the stare for a little longer than necessarily appropriate, and turns on his heel to stride away.

It would be a good exit, if that was what was actually happening. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Barry asks, following at an equal pace.

Snart replies without stopping, “I’m peckish.” Though he spares Barry a glance over his shoulder, “Why?”

“Oh, you didn’t understand?” He asks innocently, Snart pretending to not be paying special attention as he falls in line at a food truck, “You’re stuck with me.” Snart stops, turns almost comically slow to Barry’s smile which is likely as evilly satisfied as he feels. 

Snart squints appraisingly, “And what if I’m recognized?” he asks with a showy conspiratorial tone.

“That’s on you, I’m just an innocent forensic scientist you were pressing for information.” Barry informs him with an air of pity, adding with deeply feigned regret, “Going so far as to threaten my friends, family, and small pets. Just despicable.”

“You’re a little too good at this bad thing for a hero, y’know.” Snart comments, and Barry almost gets hung up on how much like criticism it sounds, “So, I’m ‘stuck’ with you?” He clarifies.

Barry shrugs, “Or you could tell me what your plan was, understand it’s foiled, and head back to whatever warehouse Mick is cooking you in - if he hasn’t burnt it down yet.” He adds with a smile.

Snart seems to think, considers just enough to get Barry’s scarred hopes stirring that it might just be this easy, he might even have time to hit the ice rink before the dip- “No.” Guess not.

“Alright, then.” He says pitifully, and Snart’s side-eye tells him he’s succeeded in his tone implying a ‘you asked for it’.

Snart discretely takes out his phone as they move forward in line, a burner with screen brightness turned down to deter hovering eyes, but that’s fine. He plucks it out of Snart’s hand at a nearly in-human speed, leaving him glaring at his empty hand, “Auditioning for rogue membership?” He asks.

“You’ll get it back,” He assures him in a borderline condescending tone, “-later.” He slips the phone into his tight back pocket, area not a casual place for Snart to sneak it back from, which seems to be the only fail-safe he can find. He’s not going to bother trying to parse out the coded texts anyway, the action alone should communicate that Snart’s not going to get any work done here, but caving and going home looks like the last thing Snart wants to do now. 

They move forward in line, Snart not bothering to spare the menu board or Barry a glance, “Fries,” he says, and pauses to look at Barry deliberately hovering at his elbow, “-and one hot chocolate.”

“Aw, thanks for thinking of me.” Barry says.

“Well, you are paying.” Snart retorts, taking the hot chocolate that’s slid to him across the counter and keeping it deliberately out of reach.

“Really?”

“Forgot my wallet in my other coat.” Snart says with that glint in his eye, a specific look that Barry’s jaw has suffered from grinding his teeth at, but that’s in the past because he’s completely calm, he’s fine, he’s paying, but he’s fine. 

“Sure.” He sighs as he rummages around his pockets, attempting to give the server something more warm than a grimace. as they hand him the steaming fries, which Snart steals one of. Snart wrinkles his nose, snatches the provided vinegar and salt shaker, and continues to tap them equally over the steaming fries.

Snart stops only at his continued look of distaste, “Too much?” he asks as if he isn’t delighting in taking this little act of spite, which he continues to take.

“If I added water they’d float.” Barry replies, adding as much dismissal as possible to avoid finding any of this instance enjoyable, which is a strange and growing feeling.

But Snart just pops a fry into his mouth with a cute little scrunch of his nose, but the server interrupts his own disturbing observation, “You look a lot like that Cold Captain guy.”

“Really?” Snart says, and a weaker man might find his impression of innocent charming, but weaker men likely don’t know the warning signs of Snart mischief, “Guess I know who I’m going as next Halloween.” He says with a polite smile to the server, but his eyes never leave Barry. 

Yeah, no. He does not get to schedule anxiety for a year away on a holiday. 

Snart huffs a laugh and turns on his heel with a flourish and accompanying fry. No one should take that much pleasure from such a particular breed of sadism, but Snart exists, so-

He needs to stop finding challenging behavior attractive.

He snatches the food and walks as fast as appropriate, Snart completely aware that he can’t be flashing about in a crowd this thick, but luckily for him he slips by at a technically unfair speed and falls in step behind Snart’s boots. 

Snart stops at a booth, balloons against the back and darts already in his hand, taking his time watching Barry fumble to put the salt with fries down, but he looks away the second Barry straightens to pull his now salty gloves off one finger at a time.

It’s time to get some cold-no, hard-No. Facts, just facts. 

“So, why are you here, again?” He leans against the stand’s counter while asking, dusting off a fry with his free hand.

Snart doesn’t pay him much attention, “I like funnel cake.” He drones with a corresponding pop of a balloon.

He continues, ignoring Snart’s flippant snark, “There is pretty good news coverage,” he notes, “but you can make a scene anywhere.” He adds. 

“Gotta go big to get any attention with the stunts you pull.” Snart says, amusement at the edge of the condescending comment but abruptly cut off by another pop.

“We both know you’re a better thief than stealing from charity.” He says, making the thorough stab at butter and honey tactics as well. He’s not above playing to Snart’s ego if it means he can spend some of his day with someone who isn’t wanted by the American government.

“True.” Snart says, obviously pleased and on to Barry’s tactics, but he still spares Barry a glance, “But maybe I’m bored.” 

A typical derisive challenge to do the logical thing and distrust him and his standards, so he ignores it, leaning forward on his elbow, “I’d say it’s a distraction, but you’re too much of a control freak to let anyone else make your puns.”

Snart throws up his hands in mock defeat, all out of darts, “You got me.”

The booth vendor sets the prize box down, which nudges the hot chocolate teetering near the edge; he grabs it quickly, for non-metahuman standards, but Snart still takes notice.

“Which one do you like?” Snart asks absently, sifting through the options.

He shakes his head, stuffing his free hand in his pocket, “I’m not accepting bribes of any kind.” No matter how cutesy or cheap they look.

“Oh, I just wanted to know which one not to pick.” Snart replies absently, picking out a gaudy rhinestone bracelet, “This isn’t for you.” 

“Didn’t know Lisa accepted anything less than 10k.” He jests, but Snart’s following glare as he pockets the bracelet tells him that he’s hit a chord having intimate knowledge of his very small gift-giving pool, “C’mon, I already know you care about things that don’t start or end in a dollar sign.”

“You’re right.” Snart admits with a heavily dramatic sigh, “Sometimes it’s in the middle.”

“…You care about Ke$ha?” He asks, the only answer he receives being a huff and a back to follow down the boardwalk.

He’s not denying it.

He catches up with him easily, which is the opposite of him trying to multitask avoiding his coworkers, scanning for Rogues, and finding a way back into possible conversation that doesn’t start with, so do you ‘wake up in the morning feeling like P-diddy’?

Warmth presses against the middle of his back steering him to the right into a passage between tents. He’d be alarmed if he isn’t currently trying not to trip into a pile of snow, which upon narrowly avoiding he skips alarm and goes straight to frustration at the smirk to his left.

“Ice.” Snart says by way of explanation, his hand retreating from Barry’s back, but Barry’s pretty sure the walkway is almost as clear as his own religiously salted driveway, and Snart intentionally touching him is suspicious enough if he didn’t also know Snart would get a reserved laugh out of him slipping and falling on his face.

He can still feel the outline of a phone in his back pocket, so he ponders while he blows on his hot chocolate, which smells fantastic, but Snart takes it right out of his hand before he can take a sip, taking a swig and clicking his tongue, “Would be better with marshmallows.” He explains, but he takes another drink anyway and keeps it close to his chest, the criminal.

He supposes using the speed force wouldn’t be unreasonable in this situation, immoral maybe, immature definitely, but-

“Barry!” Iris calls from behind.

Iris, calling him, while he’s with Snart.

Approximately a second passes, but Snart’s already been shoved in the nearest tent, which he’s standing in front of, and Iris is still jogging towards him, only a step further than before.

“Hey, I was just about to text you, I thought you’d left or something.” She starts a little breathlessly, stops, looks between his expression and his hands, “You have fries.” She notes.

He does, “Sure do.” He says, because- …he does.

Iris blinks, staring between him and the fries, “And they’ve survived more than a minute with you.” She notes, again sounding like she’s asking something omnipotent and obvious to confirm this reality, though he’s pretty sure it’s just himself and her in the little liminal space between boardwalk and park. 

And Snart.

Iris’ eyes drift to the tent flap behind him as if she can sense the pin-point of his anxieties through the all-weather plastic.

“Trying to pace myself, y’know,” He fumbles, “in public.” attempting to angle himself in front of the opening, and then not making it too obvious, and then back to feeling frantically embarrassed. 

And having fries. 

Iris focuses on him again and laughs, “You’re acting kinda weird-“ she squints, “-er.” She adds, skepticism growing more prominent than amusement.

“Really?” Barry laughs, shaking his head a little too vigorously to allow his free hand to grab the back of his neck, “Just the cold, I guess.” He adds with a painfully forced shrug because oh my god that was a pun.

“Uh-huh.” She says, looking him up and down and taking a fry to chew on along with his behaviour, “God, those are salty.” She coughs, still eating the fry, but shaking her head the whole way through, “I need water.”

“Good idea.” He adds, nodding, because water is not here, and she should go there, where it is.

“Whatever, just don’t miss the dip.” Iris demands, taking one last moment to look him over, “Weird.” She says as a closing statement, takes one more fry for the road and strides round the corner shaking her head to herself.

He takes a moment to breath, “Smooth.” Snart says at his back.

Moment of peace ruined.

Snart flicks the tent flaps back with distaste, “Give me that.” He scoffs and snatches the hot chocolate back in exchange for the fries, going from ruffled to miffed at the half-empty weight of the cup, but resumes their way through the alley.

Snart catches him glaring at the cup, tilting his head at him, “Worried about cooties?” he teases.

He keeps his glare up, now solely unbroken on Snart’s challenging smirk, and takes a large gulp in total spite and staunchly ignores the stupid little flip his stomach does at the new mint taste on the rim. 

Mint taste. His mint taste, the specific kind that the entire Cortex has been teasing him about since he made a habit of keeping mints, or today, just one, in his pockets. 

His pockets.

Barry stops in his tracks, “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?” Snart asks, stopping a few paces ahead at the edge of the crowd in exasperation, an obvious show.

“Eat a mint.” Barry says, trying to comprehend how he is currently existing in a timeline where this is happening, “Out of my pocket.”

Snart’s eyebrows rise a little, but the corner of his mouth follows, “Maybe.” He’s finding this hilarious, which Barry is not.

“You did.”

“I didn’t know it was so important to you.” Snart teases.

“Of all the ways I could die-“ He stops short of revealing his friends tell him not to chew and run, and focuses on the current impossibility that he now has to explain, “-I don’t want it to be because I choked on a mint at mach 2 so,” Snart looks distinctly more focused, amusement fading in favour of realization, “when I gotta get somewhere quick, and there’s a mint in my mouth-“

“You put it back…” Snart finishes for him, “In the wrapper.”

“Yeah.” He over enunciates, because he’s a forensic scientist who’s seen enough horrors with a black light to have, maybe not a phobia, but a definitive dislike of germs, and sharing of germs, and he didn’t even share food with Linda, and at least they were dating then, and-

Snart looks to the cloudy sky, considers, and shrugs. And now he’s walking away.

Well, that happened.

It takes him a moment, and then another, but he manages to remember his entire idea of annoying Snart to failure or fleeing will be completely for not if he doesn’t catch up, so he has to get over it.

Which is proving to be very hard, because he’s a repeat offender, he has world-wide warrants for his arrest, he’s killed people, and has now accidentally shared a more grossly intimate action than he has with his most recent girlfriend.

And the fact that he has to remind himself of his negative traits so often to counteract his positive feelings towards him is getting increasingly concerning.

The sheer oddity of- everything about this is not lost on him. He can guess that Snart is also aware, but having too much fun to bother caring. 

Which he might also be experiencing. His plan has definitely backfired, which Snart’s probably has as well. 

He really has to stop relating to his villains.

But back to catching up to Snart. Which as he nears the exit of the alleyway he doesn’t have much catching up to do, seeing as Snart is leaning against a guard rail near the boardwalk watching a charity tent, specifically the table for the children’s hospital which Cisco happens to be leaning over, and Lisa Snart is tending.

He’s beyond finding any of this the least bit surprising.

“Hello, Cisco.” Lisa croons, leaning over the table on her elbows to bat her lashes up at him, a dramatic touch he can tell came from her older brother.

Cisco crosses his arms and scoffs, and he admires his show of willpower despite the way he flips his hair a little bit, “Here to steal Tiny Tim’s crutch or just warming someone’s seat?” He asks coolly.

Lisa sighs, elegantly of course, “Oh, honey, can’t a girl whose lived a hard life try to make other’s a little easier?” she asks, offering a pen and a touch of puppy eyes.

“So warming a seat?” Cisco concludes tersely in an attempt to distance himself from the effect of pet names, reminding Barry that this is a private conversation, and he has a conversation of his own for his Snart- okay, better phrasing: the Snart next to him.

“You brought Lisa?” Barry points out keeping his voice down, his back to her and his front to Snart’s uninterested posture.

Snart supplies casually, “You brought your sister.” much more interested in the last of the fries than the conversation.

“Foster sister,” Barry corrects as casually as someone intensely annoyed can, and why it matters that Snart knows that, he doesn’t care to examine, mostly because the reason will be gone in a week, “and she’s here for work reasons.”

“So is Lisa.” Snart says, trading him the empty checkered cardboard for the near-to cup, “Maybe they can do a joint piece on local welfare.”

He snorts with a puff of cold air, “That would be rich.”

Snart spares enough attention from the remaining drink to reply, “The opposite, actually.” Okay, he played right into that one.

But Snart doesn’t get to have an opinion on the City’s welfare, especially since he’s contributing to the reason that property prices are plummeting and insurance prices are skyrocketing, and that Barry even has to think about that and how depressing it is trying to help out with the home budget without dipping into his inheritance.

And now Snart’s smiling smugly, probably at Barry’s likely depressing expression, but the loud sounds of someone playing his trending slips is the more realistic contender, “You’re thinking about the ‘Flash falls’, aren’t you?” He guesses despite the broiling embarrassment and bruised pride, and to be honest, sore back.

Snart chuckles, “No, slapstick’s not really my bag,” he would consider that almost sweet if he doesn’t already see a ‘the burlap kind with a big dollar sign on it’ joke coming, but Snart simply smirks at him, “I’m just wondering how long Ramon can hold his breath.” 

One look over his shoulder and his heart stops, but in actuality is likely reaching a speed to phase right through his ribs, because the tent is empty, table unattended, Cisco-

Snart nods to the tent beyond Barry’s back and that’s all the direction his feet need, a quartered and drawn out second splitting as he rushes behind and around and through, stopping at a pace that sends him lurching and wide eyed at the image his brain is somehow not catching up with in relation to Snart’s no longer foreboding words.

Cisco being pressed up against a tent support post by Lisa Snart, who’s intentions he’s going to guess are not platonic nor harmful, that or she’s just trying to choke him with her tongue.

“Cisco!” He hisses. 

Cisco lets out a sound not unlike a gargled yelp, “-Oh, hi!” He says breathless, managing to feebly put a hand between him and Lisa while forming sensible words.

“What are you doing?” He pleads, both desperately and angrily confused and not enjoying being in a state of post-heart attack, and also that Cisco was supposed to be the reasonable one when it came to the Snarts.

Cisco’s eyes widen, as if he’s coming to the same realization, stumbling to answer while hastily untangling their hair, “Um, I didn’t-” He giggles nervously, “-She started it.” He gasps and finishes with an audible gulp. 

“Guilty as charged.” Lisa says with a flip of her fashionably fly-away hair, unpinning Cisco and letting him shuffle over to Barry.

Cisco whispers at his shoulder in an attempt to ease tension, “If it’s any consolation, I think she had a gun.”

“Don’t be silly,” Lisa chuckles as she takes a step forward, flipping a loose wave and planting a deceptively chaste kiss to his cheek, “I’m just happy to see you.” She punctuates with a wink.

God, why does he have to witness this.

“Feet. Move. Now.” He shoves Cisco’s dead-weight away around the tent as fast as humanly possible, hopefully before Lisa can recognize his physique and voice or blow Cisco another kiss and completely render his knees more useless than they already are. 

He leads Cisco back to where he left Snart, or more relevantly where Snart was. Looks like he doesn’t care that much about his burner phone-

“Um, dude, why are you staring at your phone?” Snart stole his phone back, and also somehow took his own phone from his pocket and replaced it with it, and of course Snart changed his passcode, “Is this like the new silent treatment?”

Okay, that’s a little disturbing, and definitely not at all impressive.

His brain catches up with Cisco’s words, “Oh, no, Cisco, it’s fine. I-“ -get it, he would’ve finished, but he’s deciding he’s not ready to admit that to himself let alone Cisco so, “I don’t hold it against you.”

“I’m really sorry about Snart.” Cisco apologizes, then looks down guiltily, “Both of them.”

He doesn’t need to know he’s mourning losing the last of the hot chocolate almost as much.

He sighs, “It’s fine.” He assures Cisco, who’s still looking guilty but a little less rumpled as he straightens out his coat, “Let’s just get to the dip on time.”

Which isn’t that hard, seeing as the bathrooms setup as change rooms are only a quick walk away, so they slip into the small line for the bathroom building with ease. 

He finally unlocks his phone, code of course being ‘COLD’ and is slightly disturbed to see that his contacts are open, but a text from Caitlin pops up, “Pls meet in family bathroom”. 

Iris and Linda joining them in line breaks his response and thorough search of recent changes to his phone, “Hey!” Iris greets them warmly, but she looks between them, singling in on Cisco, her chosen weak link of the tense two of them, “Something up?” she asks.

Cisco sighs and starts, “It’s Cold-“ his elbow shoots out, jabbing Cisco in the ribs, ”-out here!” He yelps, glaring up at Barry, and he’ll have to apologize profusely later.

“Yep, brr!” Barry laughs a little too forcefully.

Iris seems ready to stage an impromptu investigation but Linda interrupts, “Yeah, weirdos, it’s winter.” as she shivers next to Iris, not as immune as she likes to pretend while criticizing from within her cocoon of a coat.

“I still can’t believe they sent two of us out here to do a fluff piece.” Iris huffs, rolling her eyes with more frustration than she’d usually address one of her assignments, but luckily distracted from her questioning.

At Barry’s concerned expression Linda peaks over her scarf to explain, “She’s just mad because the editor turned down her investigative piece on corruption in Central City.”

“Corruption?” Cisco asks, eyebrows lifting to his hat.

“Insurance files, bills, cases - most relating to damage caused by the Singularity and the Accelerator - you name it, it’s been conveniently ‘lost’, usually after being ‘relocated’ to a ‘less affected by disaster’ location of Central.” Iris states with a tone of intellectual interest, but Linda blinks hard at every aggressive air-quote, “He assumed I just wanted to harass the Star City big shots that have been moving here ever since we became conveniently out of range of arrows.”

“Relocated to what buildings?” Barry asks, information muling in the back of his mind collecting together to make what, he’s not sure, but he doesn’t like it.

“Mostly uptown; the financial district especially” She says casually, but he can feel a very not casual realization connecting, “the break in at a consulting firm is what actually got me started.” Oh, oh, “It had the Rogues’ written all over it, both literally and figuratively; the graffiti was completely lacklustre.” She says, but he’s pretty sure he’s just reading lips at this point, brain using all unnecessary power to understand what the hell Snart is planning.

“And who burns a ficus?” Linda adds at Iris’ shoulder.

“Exactly!” Iris exclaims, her absolute seriousness about plant arson hilariously cute at any other time than this current one, which is being warped by his lack of focus on more than what the hell Snart is planning, and how the most vivid thing he can remember from that night is how good the oranges Snart bought him were.

“I’m sorry about the piece.” Linda says, putting her arm around Iris’ stylishly bundled shoulders.

“Yeah right, you’re just trying to stay warm.” Iris replies with a cross of her arms, still in a sour mood, not unlike sunshine on a cloudy day, and getting increasingly overcast from his prior observation; gooey metaphor abandoned for an actual weather forecast.

“Ouch, Iris, I have feelings you know.” Linda says, pausing her shivering long enough to intentionally shake her head in disappointment, but it takes exactly one raise of Iris’ eyebrow for her to cave, “It’s both.” She admits resuming her suffering.

Iris sighs, then opens her arms, Linda instantly wraps around her, “It’s both.” Iris repeats to them ignoring Linda winding her scarf around both their necks.

“Aw, you two are so cute,” Cisco notes with a hint of a baby-voice despite the ruffled looks they respond with.

Barry adds, “the cold little journalists.” Which sounds like a kid’s book, probably following along the lines of ‘if you give a columnist a reputable tip’.

Iris just smiles, except it’s lacking her usual warmth, reminding him of her particular vindictiveness after he’d use up all the hot water when they had the misfortune of being teenagers who shared one bathroom, “I’m telling Caitlin about the fries.”

“Iris, no, please-“ he calls, but she and Linda are already heading into the women’s washroom, easily qualifying for three-legged race gold on their merry way to ensuring the closest thing he’ll see to sodium in the next month are mandatory magnesium enriching salt bathes.

The line moves forward, Cisco pulling him along into the family washrooms.

“Barry!” Patty calls, jogging over from a group of chuckling officers to him with no shortage of warmth despite the weather.

“Hey, Patty.” He replies as warmly, feeling only a little flirt-ily distracted as Cisco sighs and abandons him to head inside.

“You haven’t seen Joe, have you?” She asks, looking around 

“No, but he should be around here somewhere.” Likely still buttering up Mr. Singh for extra baked goods, but he’s not going to slander him in front of his partner, “What were you laughing about?”

“Oh, we were picking one of the Flash’s ‘villains’ we’d want to see a criminal psych profile on.” She explains nonchalantly. 

“Oh, fun.” An odd game, but it’s better for his health than the one where they all guessed who could’ve stolen Snart’s files, so, “Who’d you choose?”

“Captain Cold.” She says.

Okay, worse.

“Yeah?” He asks as casually as someone experiencing an abrupt and acute, very small, completely minuscule, large panic attack can, “Why’s that?”

“Well,” she starts, and he can tell for the sake of his heart he shouldn’t have asked, “I mean, he’s an internationally known thief with a steady record of successful heists, and yet the second the Flash kicks him off a payload he completely destroys his modus operandi.” She explains the topic with the kind of passionate enthusiasm only inspired detectives or the slightly inappropriately hobbied can muster, “He forms the ‘Rogues’, takes Santini territory, confronts law enforcement; all while maintaining a ‘cold’ gimmick?” She snorts cutely despite the subject matter.

“Yeah, ha-“ He laughs with her around the nervous energy bubbling in his gut, “…What a nerd.” He trails off, because making things worse is his speciality.

She seems confused, but she laughs through it, “Yeah, pretty much.” She agrees, and Patty is looking at him, which seems a weird thing to notice now since she’s been doing just that since the conversation started, “Anyway, I gotta go find Joe.” She says, gives him a little wave and leaves at a stride, but he can see that familiar questioning sharpness flit across her befuddled amusement, summoning the eternal question-

Why did he have to be weirder now?

Okay, now that he’s officially mortified and has ruined his easygoing work relationship with Patty, he better not keep Caitlin and Cisco waiting. 

He slips into the family washrooms and before the door can even swing shut Caitlin’s grabbing him by the biceps, “What took you so long?” She grinds out. 

“Ow-ow, Cait, doctor touch.” He pleads with her, attempting to detach her desperate and slightly contemptuous talon-like grip on his arm, and wow, she’s strong for usually being so dainty, “What’s wrong?”

“Boo! Peek-a-Boo! Shawna Baez! Here. At my tent!” She intones with full desperation and tension enough to snap his poor twiggy arms.

“What?” He asks rhetorically, because he guessed the Rogues were somewhere around, but the mix between Caitlin’s fervour and idea of Shawna actually being a volunteer instead of just slipping in is confusing.

But Caitlin takes the question less rhetorically, letting go of his arm momentarily to explain, “I’m setting up tables and all of sudden-“ she makes a shaking motion with a tightlipped wide-eyed expression, likely more related to her unsettled emotions than actual actions, “-Volunteer rogue!”

Cisco chews a piece of kettlecorn incredulously, if that’s possible, “Are you sure?” he asks.

Caitlin snaps, “I am not just being a white person, Cisco! it was her.”

Barry takes a step into her line of frustrated pointing, “Where is she now?” he asks by way of doubly distracting her from pelting Cisco with his kettlecorn and gleaning what the Rogues are up to.

“She stuck around long enough for setup and took off.” Caitlin explains with an expressive and flustered wave, “On the back of a patrol cart, but still!” she clarifies with fervour, “I would’ve told security but I didn’t want the whole event shut down, and it was just me and this other girl, and Shawna was more helpful than her; she just made my head spin.”

“I get it, Cait,” He says with a sigh, watching her visibly calm down at reassurance, “the city needs a break from this stuff.”

“I think the city should stop being such a hypocrite.” Cisco mutters into his kettlecorn.

“Anyway-“ Caitlin says harshly, firmly planting her hands on her hips, “-that’s when I texted CISCO-“ She’s growls, looking about two seconds and exactly three inches from grabbing his ear.

“Hey, I didn’t realize it was an emergency.” Cisco says by way of defending himself and his prioritized actions of consuming candied popcorn and being seduced by Lisa Snart.

But Shawna Baez, Lisa Snart, and something intuitive and often right is telling him the jalapeño hot chocolate came from somewhere roguish and heat obsessed.

“I used the knife emoji, Cisco.” Caitlin says, “I do not use the knife emoji unless it’s urgent.”

And why would Snart want all of them here, yet so spaced out?

“I thought you just slipped.” Cisco says in defence.

Maybe they are planning on robbing the charities, or targeting the dip?

“I am a trained surgeon, Cisco,” Caitlin grinds out again in a dangerously frustrated tone, “Do you honestly think I’m going to slip and use the knife emoji?”

He doesn’t know what to think, all he knows is he wasted ten bucks on half a hot chocolate and three soggy fries for zero intel which adds up to feeling stupid, tired, and romantically confused.

“No?” none of them need a refresher on Cisco’s intense fear of sandals outside of their intended use, and Caitlin looks ready to pull off her uggs and improvise, so he’s going to take a break from rubbing his temples before things get ugly.

He takes another step forward, hand out to both of them, “Guys, I’ll handle it.”

“Thank you.” Caitlin says with a deep breath, “Now, sit down, I want to get a before and after chart of your vitals.” She asks, and he notices as he hops up on the counter that she seems to be counting under her breath.

She starts unpacking her medical bag next to him, Cisco moving out of the way out of courtesy and safety, “I know these checks seem redundant, but we still know so little about how your physiology has changed, especially reacting to different stimuli.” She continues, taking out a sheet of kid’s thermometer stickers as she pulls out her stethoscope and the despised pressure cuff, which he does feel is redundant seeing as she already squeezed his brachial artery enough on the way in, “I mean, You haven’t even experienced a cold yet, so-.” Caitlin states, quickly running through her usual vital check and chart, calming down to her usual less frustrated self.

“-Actually…” He corrects.

Caitlin looks up from her chart, blinks, “Excuse me?” She says, but it doesn’t feel like she’s asking.

Wow, he’s just doing everything great today.

“It was when you guys were outta town,” He explains, managing not to fall over himself rushing, “it was small.” With the illustrative help of his hands, also possibly raising with the secondary purpose of protecting him from her distraught expression. Cisco’s not the only one who avoids conflict with Caitlin like an uncomfortable plague.

“Small like?” Caitlin asks through a deep breath, restraining her turtle face enough to ask with an air of calm, but that’s just unnerving him more.

He sighs, “Ear ache, some nausea, vertigo, general ache, I took some cold medicine, it was gone within 4 hours.”

“Barry. I am your doctor, you have to tell me this!” She explains with a wave of her hands, and he’s lucky they’re outside of Star Labs or there would be binders and spreadsheets involved, and he’s had enough accidental paper cuts to know to stand back when Caitlin gets fervent, but the only place to respectfully retreat to is further back on the sink, “What if it was more serious than you thought?” She asks, “What if you had taken too much medicine, or not enough, or not the right kind?” she adds empathetically, adding more plausibilities to the already escalating anxiety of the situation, “What about the interactions with your unique meta-human chemical structure?” She asks rhetorically with a shake of the fever bear sheets, seeming much less child oriented when wielded in the hands of a spiralling Caitlin Snow.

He looks to Cisco for help, but he’s standing back with his eyes wide and kettlecorn crushed to his chest, so he’s not getting any help there.

But back to Caitlin spiralling, “We have no idea how the speed force affects your immune system!” She adds to the room in general, slapping a fever bear on his forehead absently, “it may simply appear as quick ailments,” and another, “or it could hinder your hyper-metabolism,” and one more, “or your healing,” fever bear, “your speed in general!” 

He’s pretty sure that last one was a panda.

“Hey, Cait,” He says, “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you, and I won’t do it again.” He reassures her, catching her intense and slightly watery gaze, “I’m fine, okay?” He smiles by way of evidence.

“I can’t lose anyone else, Barry.” She says, and despite the deep breath she takes, her voice quivers, “I just- can’t.”

“You won’t.” He says, and he really wants to mean it, but being the Flash is always going to involve death, and he can’t help how often he finds himself looking down that big gaping hole in his life that’s been there since the singularity, and after the particle accelerator, and after his mom, and he really ‘can’t’ either when he thinks about how the majority of it is his fault. There wouldn’t be a need to raise any funds if he had just made one different choice, and there would be no broken buildings, no grieving widows, no painful almosts. Ronnie, Eddie-

Caitlin surges in, wraps her arms around his middle and Cisco follows suit, one head for each shoulder. It’s awkward and cramped, the sink is probably going to break and his pants are probably getting soaked, but it’s comforting, and that’s all he really needs and wants right now.

The hug ends, not too soon and never too late, and he’d probably see the both of them with shiny eyes if he isn’t already blinking back blurry edges to his vision.

Caitlin scoops her equipment into her bag, takes a deep breath and points a commanding finger at the both of them, “No dying.” She orders with a healthy amount of humor, “Now get changed so you can freeze your butt off.”

The bathroom door opens and Joe shimmies in around Caitlin and Cisco, turning to Barry and stifling a chuckle, pointing at him and his likely comical appearance, “Details.”

“Later.” He assures him with a deep sigh, stopping only at the stall door to gesture to Joe to swipe a hand through his beard, lightly speckled with what looks like cookie crumbs. 

“Thanks,” Joe mumbles from beyond the stall, calling as he steps into his own to change, “Man can’t cook to save his life but his baking could reanimate.”

“I’ll remember that for after the dip.” He laughs.

“Y’all are suicidal.” Joe says, the shake of his head carrying into his intonation clear enough through the stall door.

“Hey, you’re swimming, too.” Barry reminds him, good nature almost getting mutually tangled in his sweater, which is putting up an admirable fight for being old and small, almost more trouble than it’s sentimental value.

Joe scoffs a laugh, “Yeah, ‘cause I don’t wanna lose both my Captain and my son to the sea.” He says as he shifts around outside, “And it’s called a dip for a reason; if there were swimming involved I wouldn’t qualify.”

He tugs his arms free, and after that struggle he considers speeding through the rest, but just as quickly dispels that for the simple possibility of smoking wool triggering the fire alarm, “You don’t have to wait for me, Joe.” He calls as he valiantly attempts the human struggle of undressing at a normal speed.

“I told you not to wear that sweater-“ He scorns fatherly through the door, but he can still hear the tiles squeak as he leaves, “See you at the dip.”

He makes one final tug, and freedom has never felt so satisfying, at least where clothes are involved. He switches his jeans out for his swim trunks, his only pair that don’t chafe his rapidly toned thighs, and he might also find the dinosaur pattern charming enough to balance the humiliation he’ll get for it.

He stuffs the rest of his clothes back into his bag, tugs his coat on and steps into his boots at a semi-normal speed. He shoulders the stall door open, takes a step, and clips someone on the way out. He spins, apology tumbling out, “Oh, shoot, I’m so sor-“

Snart is standing in front of him, looking smug, in a full body wetsuit.

“You were saying?” Snart asks.

He’s having a stroke, that, or he’d very much like to have one because it must be better than this.

This is the part where Snart would quip about him being a drooling vacant infant, Barry decidedly nips that in the bud and backs him into the stall, hissing at him in a tone that hopefully communicates his need for Snart to say nothing or he’s going to start sparking and he does not need another burnt shower curtain incident.

“No.” He doesn’t need to explain what the ‘no’ is in reference to; Snart in general? Usually.

“Why not?” Snart asks with a tilt of his head, instantly on the same page about what the ‘no’ is referencing, an uncomfortable page for them to share this regularly.

“Because this is a police hosted event.” He states, an obvious fact that should discourage criminals with reputations like Snart from stripping down and doing the dog paddle.

“I noticed.” He says, he’s going to staunchly ignore the mental image of Snart being tackled by a dozen freezing underdressed cops.

He takes a calming breath, reminding himself that it would be morally wrong to phase Snart into the nearest hollow wall until the dip is over, and instead clarifies, “This event is supposed to be about helping pay for recent disasters, not make more.”

“Let me get this straight,” Snart says, though it’s likely an impossible task for him, “you’re telling me not to do something constructive for this City?”

The wall idea is looking increasingly good, but he valiantly grinds out, “I’m telling you not to ruin the 3:30 puppet-palooza by getting shot.”

Snart counters, “It’ll be more fun than watching an old coot talk to his hands for a half-hour.” Disconcertingly contented for being trapped in a 4x4 public bathroom stall with a seething super-powered Barry Allen.

He takes a step forward, opens his mouth, the appropriate way to begin a sentence, but he freezes, Snart’s gaze locked somewhere below his eyes and his hand rises in his peripherals so instead of backing away or batting off the hand, he stays very still. Snart’s fingertips just graze his jaw at the sensitive space near his neck, pulling away far enough to reveal the only logical reason for Snart to be touching any part of his face - a stray fever-bear.

Snart snorts in disbelief, a strangely cute sound, “Haven’t seen one of these since Lisa was in diapers.” Snart muses, but he breaks the reverie with a glance to Barry. 

“Thanks.” He manages despite his throat’s traitorous gulp that he’s hoping isn’t audible as it sounds in his ears. 

A knock bangs sharply against the door, he jumps back and almost hits his head against the stall, not missing Snart enjoying his surprise without sparing a second to blink.

Iris calls, “Barry, you in there?” she stamps her boot impatiently, “You’re gonna be late! Again!” 

“K, be right there!” he calls, attempting to tamp the husk in his voice and any stray nervous static crawling off him. 

“Hurry up!” She says, and he can already hear her annoyed huffing receding on her way out.

He looks back to Snart, and decides he needs to try an approach that can’t as easily be interpreted as a challenge, “Please, don’t ruin this.” He pleads, It’s not something he’s above right now. 

Snart sighs and looks to the tiles, and possibly the fever bear still stuck between his thumb and index, and maybe it’s helping sell the deal because he looks back up, “I won’t.”

“Thank you.” He really wishes he could believe him, so he pauses his exit with a hand on the stall door, “but if you do, there will be an entire department of hell to pay.” He himself is not sure whether he just issued a threat or a warning, but he knows every time someone drops a donut or their computer crashes mid-report and they say ‘Snart’ like he’s responsible for everything taxing in life he gets a little more concerned for his ‘preferred’ criminal.

He doesn’t wait for the derisive reply that will most likely follow his threatening warning, and instead flashes out with minimal lightning, drops his bag at the tent next to Caitlin’s things and attempts to discretely slip next to Joe and Singh at the front of the penguin-esque mob gathering 15 or so feet from the water-front.

Okay, maybe Singh hasn’t noticed, he can just pretend he’s been here the whole ti- “Late again, Allen.” Singh enunciates, likely for both scathing effect and from the chill off the water that they’re going to be jumping into. 

“Sorry, it won’t happen again.” He promises with full intent to keep it, but likely no chance of doing so.

“Sure.” Singh replies, and he really wishes he could blame that one on the temperature. 

He should really do something, apologize further, compliment his work, ask about his husband but all of sudden he’s getting pushed along with everyone else towards the water at the sound of an air horn blasting too close to his ear. Okay, they’re swimming, great. Perfect. Amazing.

The first few inches are agonizing, the first two feet actually but his dread of the ice water getting to his hips and abdomen are keeping him from focusing too hard on his current suffering. Watching Joe get in up to his knees and turn back around in one smooth walk isn’t as enjoyable when he’s still submerging, neither is watching Iris practically dragging Linda in after her yelping and pleading.

“You’re doing great, Captain.” He says, hoping the sincere encouragement will buy him some points.

“What?” Singh asks, turning his grimace towards Barry a few steps behind him, trudging after him valiantly and foolishly into deeper water.

“Setting an example for the PD?” He chatters, trying to follow his captain’s example in hopes of earning back some of the respect being a perpetually late part-time vigilante has lost him.

“Pfft, If I was doing this for the department I’d be dry and warm by now,” Singh replies, hissing as the water finally reaches his abdomen, “I’m being an idiot for him.” Singh nods to shore, his husband waving particularly exuberantly at the front of the crowd of civilians and press, stopping his excited thumbs up only to raise his camera to click rapidly.

“Cut the gooey eyes, Allen. We all make sacrifices for the ones we love, and if that means my limbs and dignity, so be it.” Singh says, his teeth finally starting to chatter despite his will, he takes one last deep breath, sinks in up to his shoulders with a deeply etched frown and stands again, “I’m done.” He moves so Singh can swish past him.

Okay, well, if he heads back right next to Singh his show of solidarity will likely be seen as meek kissing up, so he’s going to try to tough it out for exactly ten seconds and then walk as fast as possible on his slightly numb legs back to shore.

Icy water splashes haphazardly at his shoulder, and he restrains the responding whine that would’ve accompanied it, “What does hell take as payment, exactly?” Snart drawls, gliding forward through the water at his waist like it isn’t currently -0 and dropping, “Cash, credit?” He asks with a tilt of his head.

“Leonard.” He seethes, the best he can do through clenched teeth. 

“Bartholomew.” Snart replies with a wink, slinking deeper into the water.

He considers turning around and leaving him to either freeze or be arrested, in whatever order really, which sounds very pleasing in his current pained and vindictive state, so he turns around only to hear Snart sigh, “I guess some people just can’t handle the cold.”

Or he could not.

He turns back around rapidly, possibly in the hopes the water will splash and reach Snart’s smug face, “I know you’re up to something, S-Snart.” He insists through his chattering teeth.

“Only thing I’m up to is my neck,” Snart says with an offensive amount of grace for a man treading ice water, “unlike some people.” He looks him up and down, and he feels distinctly angry and embarrassed from his freezing bare shoulders to his dinosaur swim shorts, “Careful, Scarlett, your face will freeze like that.”

He seethes, he’s currently seething, though it’s likely majorly fuelled by the fact that he can’t feel any of his lower extremities and that Snart has the audacity to check his watch, his freaking waterproof nerd watch, on his nerd arm, because he’s a nerd and Patty Spivot agreed, “I h-hate you.” 

Snart just chuckles warmly, “Cute.” He says with an uncharacteristic amount of fondness, “Go get a towel, kid, your lips are turning blue.”

Intentionally splashing him would be very immature and also attention drawing. Cathartic, but immature.

He marches back to the less crowded side of shore focusing on maturity and firmly not on catharsis, but it’s getting less effective while he watches Snart walking out after him with not even the slightest shiver, “If you’re not doing this for yourself, than who?” He asks even though he’s betting he’s not going to get an answer.

Snart just stands there and smirks, “The city, of course.”

A volunteer jogs up to the two of them, and this is likely the only instance he’s ever felt at ease because of a customer service voice, “Hi, we’re donating extra funds to the charity of your choice if you managed to stay in over a minute.” She explains as she hands out two towels to them, but now she’s turning directly to Snart, “You’re the record holder Mr.-?” He’s not going to answer Snart, Snart just won’t answer, or give a fake name like Smith or Carter or-why is he taking the offered pen?

Snart smirks something that could rival any grinch, “Mr. Leonard Allen.” He says.

Question answered: You can choke on your own throat. 

Barry splutters, flails in every form he encompasses, and some undiscovered, and only manages to cough while Snart signs his last name with a flourish.

“What about you, sir?” the volunteer interjects into his thought process of teetering sanity, offering him a pen, “Your name?” She asks, but he’s still lost at the newest signature on the sheet, and her expectant expression, and are those spinning tops hanging from her earrings? Dreidels? Both?

He takes a focusing breath, Snart’s taking his signature back whether he likes it or not, except- “Where did he-“ He sighs at Snart’s absence next to him that’s only missing a criminal shaped dust cloud. He’s flustered and confused and possibly reaching hypothermic because the thin towel he’s been handed is neither drying nor warming.

The volunteer with the distracting jewelry doesn’t seem bothered in the least though, asking inquisitively, “Were you two together? Because I can put you down under Allen as well-“

“No.” He cuts her off abruptly, temporarily brought back to the clipboard and wishing he could stop looking at his surname in such swooping letters next to a checkmark to donate to the children’s hospital. But back to looking around the clambering and shivering crowd for a certain head of buzzed curls, he thinks he sees Lisa’s highlights somewhere ahead next to a thick cloud of shorter black hair.

That’s close enough for him.

He starts working his way through the chilly crowd when the speakers screech off the stage set up for the concert later today. 

“Hello, Central City,” a distractingly familiar voice booms, where does he know that voice from? “I have something special for you all, and I’d like to dedicate it to Joe West.” Oh. Oh, the forecast makes so much more sense now, especially when Mark Mardon the Cisco branded ‘Weather Wizard’ is striding onto the stage with a microphone in hand, “Originally, I was thinking a tsunami, but it just seemed out of season.” He says with a regretful click of his tongue that ticks like a clock in his head, because he doesn’t know if he has time to run back to Star Labs for his suit, but if he goes now he could make it, so he does, “So, who’s ready for a winter wonderland?“ Mardon says, a deafening boom blasting out of the speakers when the mic hits the stage as he begins to rise into the air on a gust of wind just as he rushes off.

He has to act, he’ll just have to jump off the stage and hopefully pick up enough speed to grab Mardon and get him contained, he can already feel the static crackling over his skin as he slides to a stop on the stage behind him, “All hail-“

Ice crushes around Mardon’s feet, to which he overbalances and tumbles through the dissipated air stream, hits the slush with a solid smack and a painful crunch.

“That pun was a crime in itself.” Snart says, striding out of the crowd with cold gun raised and his parka thrown over his wetsuit.

Mardon makes a weak sweeping gesture, likely to create some sort of gust of wind, but Lisa saunters out of the crowd and delivers a swift kick to his abdomen with no more than a gentle breeze upsetting her hair. Mick strides in after her balling up the apron he was wearing, smashing it into Mardon’s face to cut off his excessive groaning and hauls him up, throwing a gagged criminal over the shoulder of his volunteer cook shirt with ease.

Baez snaps in with a pop, the Rogues gather in around her with the ease of a well-practiced routine while she uncaps a professional camera and with no more than a sound of the lens focusing they all disappear with a blink. 

Well, he was right about where the jalapeño hot chocolate came from.

And he’s not gonna lie, that was a little impressive.

His Flash specific phone vibrates against his side, a ping, an unknown text that’s nothing but a picture of a glass too close to an edge. 

How the hell did Snart get his numb- oh, his contacts being open. Great. 

He considers what to reply with, reconsiders replying at all because that would just be playing into this-thing, but the audience of the puppet show spots him, or at least he can assume that’s what the ear-piercing wail of “FLASH!” means when he turns around to the crowd of kids gathering at the edge of the stage platform. 

“Can we take a picture?” Asks one of the volunteers, the woman bravely trying to contain and carrel the sea of enthused children, “For the kids?”

Well, when she puts it like that.

“Of course!” He says as he flashes down to them, now standing as still as possible so the preschoolers climbing up his legs and jumping to hang off his arms can continue using him as a jungle gym safely for the picture, while a few stand awed or simply sheepishly respectful at his sides.

The camera clicks, and it hits him. A terribly wonderful idea, the perfect reply. He wouldn’t do it, he couldn’t.

“…Can you send that to me?” He asks the woman, directing her to his hourly changed number.

He does send it. The responding pending text bubble being canceled is deeply satisfying, to which he’d feel concerned about if he wasn’t feeling so smug.  
While he’s admiring the deeply cathartic lack of a reply from Snart in the less populated area behind the game tents his phone rings, so he answers with a tap to his ear piece to the sound of Cisco already speaking without introduction, “Hey man, there was a break in at the CCPD evidence archives, sending footage right, about-now,” 

He pulls the phone up to watch grainy security camera video of a man in a bedazzled ski-mask stacking boxes into the back of a truck, closing the door and turning to shoot playful finger guns at the camera before he disappears in a blink of the side mirrors, “Guy is some sort of- Mirror Master! Dang, son, I did it again.” Cisco laughs, only missing the sound of him patting his own back before he gets back to business and loving his job, “Anyway, we think he’s on the highway towards Coast.” Cisco finishes and hangs up without the unneeded specification that he should start running.

So Sam wasn’t a fever dream, that’s comforting and unsettling at the same time, a common theme with the Rogues of late. Well, at least the highways are more heavily salted.

He really has to stop liking his villains.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to comment with your favorite part, something that made you laugh, or just general approval. I love seeing comments and they definitely help my creative process! 
> 
> I have one more piece already outlined, with a much more cathartic theme to it, so if you want to check on my mental health or literary progress I'm over at gracecursed.tumblr.com.


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